


the scene ends badly, as you might imagine

by ayveehearts



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dissociation, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Time Skip, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Sylvain 'Ruining My Own Life Like Always' Gautier, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, i have so many feelings about sylvain gautier and im going to get them out so help me god
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:01:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22999642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayveehearts/pseuds/ayveehearts
Summary: The haze was like lying on the grass in the afternoon light, just barely awake. It soaked in like nothing else could. Sylvain dissipated easily into it, sinking down into quiet thoughtlessness until his body felt like a distant memory. All there was was that warmth. Faces and names dissolved into mist. If there was something good after death, if Sothis was merciful, Sylvain hoped it felt like this. It was the only absolution he was ever going to get. That he was ever going to deserve.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	the scene ends badly, as you might imagine

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone. I have a lot of feelings about Sylvain.  
> Please take note that I have not chosen to use archive warnings partially because I do not entirely know where this will go. That does not mean that they will not ever apply. Please take care of yourselves.
> 
> If you can guess where the title is from you get one free internet point to spend on buying more sad Sylvain content.
> 
> My tumblr/twitter is ayveehearts if you are interested in more stuff from me.

Walking into the bar was the same as it always was - the stench of alcohol and sweat hit Sylvain like a wall, heat turned solid as brick as he hung in the doorway. His breaths turned to mist out of his mouth from the frost outside, curling away like pipe smoke, but it was still so damn warm. Warm like blankets weren’t, in the monastery. Piling up quilts just made him sweat. It didn’t make him feel less frigid.

It was his favourite part, when the door closed behind him. It was final. It helped make his thoughts bleed out, the click of that latch. Those first few steps were when people started really looking at him. Appraising him, like they were trying to burrow their gazes into his flesh and out the other side. Their words blended together like water. 

Bars were like scraping the bottom of the barrel and then some. Like drinking the swill from the bottom of a tankard. Sylvain fit right in. Dimitri had told him he was doing well, not going out too late for a couple weeks. Ingrid had almost seemed proud of him. He hated to disappoint, but they should both have known it’d happen sooner or later. His Highness broke half the shit he touched, it shouldn’t have been a surprise Sylvain broke all of it, tangible or not. Cause and effect or something like that. He could already hear what they’d say about it. There were only so many different sentences they could make with the same words.

Indefensibly worthless. Dedue had been too good to try and tell whichever of his jilted lovers had said it they were wrong. _They’re right_ had stuck in Sylvain’s head as easily as his feet stuck to the stained wood of the bar floor. He used to say things like that, but people didn’t like it when he said it back. It was easier to just take it, anyway. He was good at taking what he was given.

He slipped himself into a spot at the bar. The barkeep poured him something amber before he even had a chance to open his mouth. It smelled foul, even from a foot away. Sylvain grinned, grabbing up the glass, and downed it quick enough all that hit him was the aftertaste. Armour polish and stomach acid. It hurt, but not enough to make him cough.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” the barkeep said, his voice a slow drawl. His hair was greyer than Sylvain remembered. Beard a lot longer. Either that or Sylvain hadn’t been looking. He could believe that.

Sylvain pushed the glass back over to the barkeep with two lazy fingers, followed by three coins from his purse. The barkeep took up both, and poured him another glass. “I’ve got to keep you all on your toes, don’t I?”

“You need a room?”

Straight to the point. Sylvain would feel bad for his own predictability if he still cared about modesty.

“Yeah,” Sylvain said. He fished around in his coin purse for a moment before pulling out what he hoped were enough. He set the coins down with finality. “Whatever you’ve got.”

The barkeep slid the coins off the counter and into his hand before handing Sylvain his key. It was a simple thing, wrought from rusted iron, but it had a weight in his hand. Like something twice as large. He tossed it up in the air a short distance and caught it, trying to dispel the feeling. Sylvain picked up his glass and stood, flashing the barkeep a careless grin. It wasn’t returned. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised.

He liked how the fire and the sparse few candles were the only source of light, in a place like this. Everything seemed better cast in red and gold. More inviting. It made every touch seem softer. It made ale look like liquid sunlight and taste like it too, when Sylvain downed enough of it. Warm and fuzzy like when his limbs started to go numb. 

The faces were all the same in that lighting. Familiar and unfamiliar bodies, all blending into one mass like some great beast. Leers and scowls all looked the same. Either one got him what he wanted, when he got drunk and fun enough. He was good at fun. 

He leaned against the wall near the fireplace, one leg crossed over the other as he took thoughtful sips of his drink. It wasn’t bad, all things considered. He’d drunk worse. Long as he didn’t let it linger on the tongue. He slipped the key into his pocket and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt absentmindedly with his free hand. The key being visible would’ve been a good sign he was available, were he anyone else. Even if he were himself, just half a year earlier. But now he was known. Like a celebrity in all the most meaningless categories. Nobody had any illusions about what he’d come for, literally and figuratively. 

Tipping his head back to drain the last of it, he almost didn’t notice someone sidling up next to him. He finished the dregs and set the glass down on the nearest table, plastering his most winning smile back on.

She was tall, a little taller than him, with hazel eyes that shone like embers in the firelight. She took a sip of whatever she had in her glass, her long, pale hair spilling down almost to her mid back. He didn’t recognise her, but people had started to all look the same a long time ago. She didn’t dress like any of the village girls. The professor had sent them out to clear bandits out of a trading road last week, so she was likely part of one of the merchant groups coming through. Something like that.

It meant she wouldn’t be around to ask for seconds. He shifted just a little closer, looking at her from under his lashes. Her lip quirked. 

“What brings a pretty girl like you to a place like this?” he said, making his voice rough.

“New in town,” she said. Her voice was like honey in Sylvain’s ears. “Heard about you.”

“Oh, yeah?” He stood up a little taller. “What’d they say? I got some secret admirers I don’t know about?”

She hummed thoughtfully. “That you’re passable in bed.”

“Ouch,” Sylvain said, putting a hand over his heart in mock hurt. “Is that all?”

“Let’s see. That you’re a heartbreaker. You can’t be trusted. You prowl around every night like a wolf hoping to score.”

There wasn’t any derision in her voice. It was still smooth, an underlying layer of heat simmering just below the surface. Interested, if anything. Sylvain liked her already. She didn’t try and tell him how damn special he was.

 _Indefensibly worthless_.

“Can’t deny it.”

“But I don’t care about any of that.” She shook her head, her brows arching. She set her drink down on the same table as Sylvain’s, still half full. “Honey, I don’t even want to know your name. And I’m sure as hell not going to give you mine.”

He laughed. “Simple. Works for me. You sure you don’t want something to be calling out, though? I’d hate for people to think I’m not giving you a good time.”

“We can add conceited to the list, then.”

He took up her glass, downing what remained in one long pull. He could feel her eyes on his throat. He set the empty glass down, making a show of licking his lips clean. “If you buy me a couple of drinks,” he murmured, leaning in closer, “you can know all kinds of things about me.”

She grinned wolfishly. “Done.”

He didn’t remember what they talked about next. Once he knew he’d get what he wanted, his head started to get murky. It was like sticking his head underwater, muffling down everything but the sensation of an arm snaking around his shoulder. The drink helped that along just fine. He made sure he never blacked out, not all the way. Played a lightweight he wasn’t, if it helped. If it didn’t, he knew how to keep the slur out of his voice. 

She didn’t seem to mind either way. Her eyes were always on him. Like he was the centre of her universe, the sun she spun around. It was always funny when they looked at him like that. They thought they’d peel back his skin and find a Crest Stone shining like a miniature star, when Sylvain knew all too well what they’d find was his black, rotten guts. Black like those ropes of tar that had turned Miklan’s bones to liquid. She said something he registered as a joke. He laughed, tipping his head back to expose his throat. She seemed to like that. When she leaned in to kiss it and he didn’t pull back, she liked that too.

She was the one leading the dance as they made their way up the stairs. Her hands clung like she didn’t want to let go, and he was more than happy to let her. It was warm. It was _right_. He looked at her and he didn’t have to really see her. Her hands were like sinking into a bath hot enough to sting. He could stay there and just drift. His body knew all the right tricks, even when he wasn’t in it. No girl had ever complained about not getting satisfied. It was just everything else that got him bruises.

 _Indefensibly worthless_.

Before the latch to the room Sylvain had rented even clicked shut behind them, she was already tearing his clothes off him. He didn’t remember giving her the key. It didn’t matter. His fingers worked at the buttons of her shirt until she slapped them away, shoving him down onto the bed with enough force to knock the air out of his lungs. 

Her lips were moving. Sylvain watched them, his own jaw slack, the sound of her words distant and fuzzy in his ears. He nodded. She yanked off her own clothes, throwing them across the room and out of Sylvain’s mind. Her body didn’t have a tangible shape under them. It was just warm. Warm under his hands as he grabbed at her hips. Warm on his lips as she kissed him. His back arched as her fingers painted heat down his chest and she forced him back down. It was good. It was really good. He couldn’t remember why he’d stopped. 

The haze was like lying on the grass in the afternoon light, just barely awake. It soaked in like nothing else could. Sylvain dissipated easily into it, sinking down into quiet thoughtlessness until his body felt like a distant memory. All there was was that warmth. Faces and names dissolved into mist. If there was something good after death, if Sothis was merciful, Sylvain hoped it felt like this. It was the only absolution he was ever going to get. That he was ever going to deserve.

Pain snapped Sylvain back to himself in a second. 

He cried out, his limbs going rigid. Fingers in his hair. Head pulled back. He stared up at the roof, hands flexing against bony hips. The roof was leaking, a steady _drip drip drip_ onto the floor. His hair felt like it was on the edge of being torn out by the roots. There was a mouth on his throat and it bit, gentle at first and then hard enough to make his head swim.

“Goddess, you’re so easy to mark up,” she whispered. At some point they’d sat up, her straddling his lap. Her hips ground down and pleasure bubbled up in Sylvain’s gut, warmth turned to scalding, terrible heat. He panted desperately, going slack in her grip. “That’s it. Let me take care of you.”

She let go of his hair, fingers stroking down onto his shoulders. He kept his head tipped back, senses still swimming half-present. When her nails drew burning lines down his back, he knew he was bleeding even before he felt thin trickles of warmth trailing down his skin. She painted her fingers up through it, smearing heat across his ribs, and criss-crossed her lines again, carving into him like meat.

He wanted to laugh, but it just stuck in his throat. Bounced around and didn’t get anywhere like when he’d screamed at the bottom of that well. All his precious blood would have soaked into the water, if he’d just rotted away down there. Given everyone a sip of nobility each.

It was all spilling anyway. It was funny. Maybe if there were any other girls there, they’d try and soak it up with a rag. Keep a little taste of his Crest to themselves and trade it in for gold when they got bored.

She kept moving against him. It was good, good enough to have him still making sounds deep in his throat like an animal. Like a breeding stud. He felt like he was boiling inside his own skin, insides melting into slag. She would laugh, too, if he could just tell her what he was thinking. Why mirth was bubbling up in his chest like hysteria. 

He wanted to tell her it would be easier with a knife. At least Miklan had figured that out, after their parents had started forcing him to trim his nails. Paring knives slipped easily under sleeves. Scars hid pretty well under layers, too.

 _Drip drip drip_ , went the water from the roof. His blood didn’t drip. It just slid down soundless.

When her hands closed around his throat, he finally tilted his head down to meet her eye. She was flushed red like a rose, her eyes gleaming like twin pieces of topaz. He would have told her that, too. Girls liked to hear that stuff. Girls liked when he pretended to look at them. Girls liked it when he shut up, too. Girls liked it when he put his tongue to other use. They always told him so. 

She squeezed experimentally, her thumbs digging in hard. Sylvain shuddered, letting all his air leak out through his mouth. She grinned, pressing her mouth to his, and bit his bottom lip. Just on the edge of breaking the skin. 

She pulled back only a second after, looking him over like she was surveying her work. Her fingers loosened just barely enough for him to take a breath. 

“This is what you get, runt,” she said, even though her mouth didn’t move. Sylvain’s head throbbed. “Does it hurt? If you cry, I’ll do it again. So don’t fucking _cry_.”

He tipped his head back again, closed his eyes, and didn’t cry.

He couldn’t slip away again. All he could do was float halfway there, his hands moving where they were directed. Her lower back, her breasts, her inner thighs. They were shaking, or at least it felt like it. He wasn’t sure. All of him might have been. Even when he felt pleasure ripple through him like sickness in his gut, felt her tense against him, he still felt that trembling. When she settled him back against the mattress and lay down beside him, it didn’t feel warm. It didn’t feel like much of anything. 

Her breaths were close enough to his ear that he could hear every unsteady puff of them like they were his own. “You feel good?” 

All Sylvain could feel was how much the sheets were sticking to his back. He opened his eyes slowly, staring up at the rough wood of the ceiling. His fingers twitched uselessly at his sides. 

“Yeah.” 

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t wait to bask in the warmth of someone else by his side. As soon as her breaths started to even he peeled himself from the sheets and made his way to the door, picking up and shrugging on his clothes with as few movements as he could manage. He didn’t let himself think too hard about how hard it felt to get his shirt on. 

She made a sleepy sound of discontent behind him, her breathing turning rough. He could feel her eyes on his back like twin brands. 

His boots were the trickiest things to get on. They were always easy to get off, in the moment. His hands just kept shaking. There was no reason for it. He’d had fun. He could still feel the stain on his stomach to prove it. His fingers just kept slipping. He rested against the wall to give himself some leverage and finally managed to tug them on, his shoulders sagging as he did. He opened the door, the faint candlelight coming from downstairs enough to make his eyes ache.

“Going already?” she murmured.

He didn’t answer. The latch clicked behind him with finality.

Walking back was usually the worst part. In the moment it was all distant, like Sylvain’s own head was another country, but the way back to Garreg Mach was taking stock. Feeling sore and cold and used, at least until he soaked himself in a hot bath. Dissolved all that shit down to nothing. The high was better than the low. When the night was still dark, nobody could tell it was him moving through the streets. He was faceless. Shapeless. Nobody cared about another silhouette moving late at night when only the lowest were still awake. 

As he staggered back down the path up to the monastery under the moon’s watchful gaze, he didn’t feel any of it. He could just feel his shirt crusting to his back. How his throat ached. In place of everything else, there was a big blank nothing. The feeling he was missing something, but couldn’t say what. Searching the depths of himself like he was feeling around the space a tooth used to be in.

The grounds were empty. He couldn’t tell what time it was. Shadows carved black shapes through stone and grass, leaving spaces where he wouldn’t be seen so easily. Garreg Mach was like an endless labyrinth when the night drew long and the taste of wine stuck to his lips, but it felt small that night. Cramped. Like those caves he and Miklan had dug out of snow once. Cozy. Safe.

Easily collapsed.

Sylvain coughed wetly, the marks on his throat throbbing in time with his heart. He rubbed at it with harsh fingers, mapping where her hands had been with one hand. Finding where the shape was.

High collars again, for a different reason than love bites. He’d weather the jokes until the bruises died down.

He almost expected to see Dimitri waiting as he wandered past the knight’s hall, but the interior was silent. He expected Dimitri again when he walked past the dining hall. Again, when he started to ascend the spiral staircase to the dormitory. Sylvain didn’t know why he was surprised he wasn’t at any of them. He had to sleep some time. There had to be some nights where he didn’t wander the grounds like a vengeful ghost.

Sylvain couldn’t think of a reason why he wanted to get caught. It was new territory. Funny, all in all. Dimitri was going to confront him in the morning no matter what. Wanting it early was just ridiculous. A waste of time. A waste of _Dimitri’s_ time. It wouldn’t help his dark circles to be up late enough to give Sylvain another one of his lectures. Something in Sylvain just missed them. 

Sylvain laughed. He wondered if he’d ever really left that well. If he was only reaching his hand up out of it to drag people down with him. Make other people clean up his messes. Wipe the blood off his battle wounds. Tell him what he was doing was wrong, in one ear and out the other.

The corridor was silent as the grave, apart from his uneven footsteps. The click of his heels was deafening. Filled every inch of it like smoke. At least to anyone awake it wouldn’t be a surprise who it was. Even if none of the doors opened as he passed, they would have to know. His obnoxious gait of triumph, or whatever it was they said. The sound of someone who’d got what they wanted. 

As soon as Sylvain closed his door, he heard the sound of muffled sobs coming from the room next to his. He took in a sharp breath, tensing up.

“Shit, Dimitri,” Sylvain muttered. He slumped down onto his bed, wincing when his back hit the mattress. He ran a hand through his hair. 

Dimitri cried out, thin and reedy. Sylvain could hear how his breath wheezed. He winced again as he heard something strike the wall between them hard.

When Sylvain’s fingers caught a tangle in his hair nausea bubbled up in his throat, filling his mouth with the taste of acid. He let his hand fall back to his side. His back throbbed in time with his uneven heartbeat. 

It should have made it harder to sleep, how loudly Dimitri sobbed. The quiet keens and cries. If Sylvain were someone else, someone responsible, he would have gone to check on him. He would have said something nice and gentle like Dedue did. Offered tea like Mercedes. Said something cutting and necessary like Felix. If he were someone else, he wouldn’t have just shut his eyes against it. It would have made him feel something.

It didn’t.


End file.
